Serial
by Fawx
Summary: Your identity has been compromised; I know who you are.


Serial

* * *

><p>Three<p>

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><p>Usually, he could expect one or two every few weeks or so. The rejected would always be replaced by new hopefuls. Each love letter, be it perfumed, or written on expensive stationary, even the few that were hastily folded bits of notepaper stuffed through the grate on his shoe locker was politely returned to the sender with a gentle apology tempering a firm rejection.<p>

However, this was the third one today. Kurama was beginning to feel frustrated.

He never read them; preferring to leave it to the imagination of whoever sent it as to his reaction over the most likely bland confessions of undying love. Human teenagers didn't hold any interest for him beyond a very specific few, and he cared even less about his classmates. Kaito Yuu counted as the one exception to the rule.

"Another one," he sighed, turning the envelope over. There was no name, and it felt like the notepaper was postcard thick. This one, like its predecessors, had been misted with the latest Bvlgari fragrance – the real McCoy, not some cheap Shibuya street corner knockoff – and sealed with a piece of black electrician's tape. The perfume drowned out any other scent, so no chance of sniffing out the culprit; too many girls at Meiou had rich parents who could afford high-end fragrances for their demanding and fashion-conscious daughters. Though, the perfume itself was notably sexless, a scent for either a man or a woman, simple. Elegant, even. Kurama didn't care much for perfumes, but this one definitely sent a message.

What that message was, however, he didn't care to find out.

"That's, what, the second today?" Kaito Yuu asked, leaning against the locker opposite, pushing his glasses into place.

"Third," Kurama replied, turning the envelope over in his hand once more. "I got one before track as well. It's the same person."

"Who?" Kaito seemed perpetually amused at Kurama's skill with identifying classmates by smell; it had become something of a game between them.

Kurama put the envelope a little closer to his nose, breathed in slowly, and tried to find the underlying scent of 'human.'

Nothing.

He glared at the envelope. "Nobody."

Kaito put his head to one side. "That trick only works on Cyclops, Minamino. Who sent you the letter?"

Kurama shook his head. "Nobody. Other than the perfume, there's no scent." He handed the envelope to Kaito, who turned it over in his hands, even sniffing it experimentally himself.

"Interesting smell, but to overwhelm _your_ nose? The last time that happened was, what, Ikita Yukio? With the, what was it…"

"Clinique Happy," Kurama said, wrinkling his nose. "But that was unintentional, I think she spilled the bottle on it. Or marinated her stationary." Whoever had sent this letter had been careful not to drench the paper; there weren't even spots on the envelope. It was, for all intents and purposes, pristine. He took the envelope back and, breaking all of his personal rules regarding love letters, slipped it into his bag.

"You're not going to read it," Kaito said, smirking. "Not after all those other poor lamentations were returned to sender."

"Don't be a fool," Kurama placed his indoor shoes in the locker and slipped on his sneakers. "I'm going to find out who it belongs to. There must be some kind of psychic imprint on it; Kuwabara will be able to detect the sender."

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, man, but I got nothin'," Kuwabara said, handing back the envelope.<p>

It was already growing dark; Kuwabara had sat with the envelope in his hands for close to an hour with no results. Kurama had every faith in his abilities, of course, but he'd pushed until Kuwabara had started complaining of a headache. Even the promise of a free meal on Kurama's tab hadn't inspired further investigation.

"Nothing? You're absolutely sure?"

Kuwabara shrugged and sipped at his soda. "Just that you and Kaito have handled it. Also that Kaito's about to go postal on his lit teacher if she mentions Don Quixote one more time, but that's kind of not relevant."

Kurama put the envelope on the edge of the table, half hoping a waiter would see it and 'accidentally' dispose of the thing.

"You gonna read it?" Kuwabara asked, glancing at the envelope, then at Kurama.

"No. I have a policy for not reading stupid teenage love confessions." Kurama flagged down a waiter to take their order. The motion sent the envelope drifting off the table, and before he could curb the reaction, he caught the thing with a deft turn of his wrist. Kuwabara stared at him , he stared at the envelope in his hand. The envelope remained.

* * *

><p>"What's this?"<p>

The contents of Kurama's school bag had scattered over his desk; the envelope covered by books and papers until only a single corner peeked tauntingly from beneath the mess. Shiori pulled it from under the detritus before Kurama could stop her, and turned it over in his hand as she set down the plate of onigiri she'd brought up to 'help him study.' "A love letter? From someone at school?"

Kurama smiled at her, resisting the urge to snatch the envelope out of her hands. "I haven't read it yet, so I'm not sure," he said, setting down his pencil. Shiori handed it over to him with a little laugh.

"You must get these all the time; what makes this one so special?"

He shrugged, taking the letter back, setting it next to his lamp. "Well, love letters are common, but an anonymous letter is much more interesting."

Shiori sighed, putting one hand to her cheek. "To be young again. There's nothing more romantic than a secret admirer." She smiled and leaned over, kissed the top of his head, and pushed the plate of onigiri closer to him. "Don't stay up too late."

He promised not to.

* * *

><p>Kurama lay in bed, the envelope in his hands, staring at it with only the moon as his light. It was well past midnight, the whole house was dark and silent but for the general creaking and settling of the foundation.<p>

He put his thumb under the black tape. It gave slowly, almost reluctantly.

_Who sent you?_ He wondered, lifting the flap, easing the card out of the envelope's tight hold. Black lacquered paper, smelling even more strongly of perfume.

A perfect circle, drawn in a thin, nearly invisible white line.

_I know who you are.  
><em>

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

1/17/2011


End file.
